Silent by Chelsea Quayle (17, Australia)

It was silent today. No hurried footsteps. No sound of tearing silk. No cries of anguish. Payton wiped at the dewy glass. She sat and watched. 

The cast of the shadow of the oncoming cold, bitter winter surrounded three figures. There was only the slightest hint of physical intimidation from the aloof stances but the verbal intimidation was obvious. Inside the circle, sat a woman, hair draped in white fabric, eyes downcast. Her body kept upright- afloat almost- by her arms, secured around her waist like a safety jacket. As the sharp dug at her hijab, her face tilted. The movement revealed her face. Payton’s breath halted. The window seat instantaneously tight, suffocating in the vast space of the book shop. ​​

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The woman, wide eyed, sat and listened. 

She did not move. 

Her name was Noida. 

If there was anything that Noida Aggarwal was, she was quiet. The type of timidness where if you watched it for long enough you would grow to feel uncomfortable yourself. She was intelligent, maybe gifted, but she was forgettable. A shadow at family dinners, merely a name without a face on academic boards. Yet she was determined to be good in every aspect of the word. She was the youngest in her family of Lebanese descent. Large, but very well off. Her father, best friends and co-owner with mine in the vastly growing, million dollar mining company ‘Evolution Australia’. Before the collapse, our families had dinner once per week, each taking turns to host a sumptuous feast. Crispy manakish to decadent baklava . Chatter, dancing and the chime of utensils against plates became familiar sounds in those years. We were even good friends, back then, Noida and I. The type of friends who would braid each other's hair and direct and perform plays of solely breakfast openings with our dolls as the main acts. She wasn’t so quiet back then. We both outgrew breakfast plays. 

Perhaps there was one singular occurrence, yet it cannot be recalled, that caused Noida to become timid. Her soft gaze turned sharp. Weary almost, as time went on. She became a cowered house cat. 

However, despite her striving for invisibility, criticism still followed her. Like it did with everyone who outwardly displayed their religious background in our small town - particularly those of Islam. It was rarely, if ever, physical. Often more verbal, systematic; ingrained. Taunts, sly comments, uneducated opinions. Throughout it all she continued to wear her hijab, while I refused. Too afraid to be a victim to what was often witnessed. She was silent but I’m not sure what was worse; staying silent or hiding who you are. I suppose, in a way, they are one of the same. 

Payton’s chest seized, hand squeezed into fists so tightly that her nails were sure to be drawing blood. Both equally as tight and uncomfortable. Tears trailed down Noida’s face, her body shaking from fear, or sobbing. It could not be distinguished. Payton placed her ear to the thin plastered wall. 

“You should have known to not sit here, you filthy rat of Allah.” One of the males, the younger of the three sneered. “ If we ask you to move, you move! Do you hear me? “

Noida gasped for air, stuttering incoherently as the younger male grabbed her by her throat. The crack of her frail body, like thunder, against the concrete. “ This is not your country, Noida. You do not belong here, so don’t begin to think you have any privilege. I will make sure you learn your lesson, don’t you worry. You will wish you would have gone back to your own rotten country. “ 

A muffled shriek rang through the bookstore. It took a moment for Payton to realise that it was her own. The sound rang in her ears like static noise, raising the hair on her arms. One of the other males ripped off her hijab before proceeding to kick her repeatedly. For the first time in many years, Noida ceased to be quiet. She yelled. Telling them she meant no harm and that she had only ever wanted to be good. They did not listen. 

Payton didn’t know how long it was that she was sitting there shrieking, tears soaking her blouse, fists banging against the glass window. Paralysed. Trapped. Sirens blared in the distance. It could have been minutes, hours. She wouldn’t have noticed. 

She could not remember leaving the bookstore. 

Anyone else she may have encountered. 

Or walking home 

The last thing she could recall was her eyes staring at the ceiling of her room, hands clutching the hijab she had placed away for many years. 

Dried tears felt cold on her face. 

She lay. A sunken feeling in her stomach, heart heavy. 

She was silent. 

She vowed to never be silent again.